Chapter 13
The room had become his prison.
It was his haven while holding all that haunted him. The more Damon retreated, the more he found himself isolated in a place that held so many memories for him. Some good. Some bad. Most heartbreaking.
The more he glimpsed how life could be free from his past, the more he knew that he needed to find a way to release himself, though the draw of his reclusive ways continued to tempt him.
It was more than just this room, it was the entire house. And yet, he remained. Forever fortifying himself in his own personal hell. The decorative trappings, the muted hues of blue and grey, and the books… Lord above, help him, all the bloody damned books.
Everything was a constant reminder of what he’d loved and lost.
Even his children.
He kept them close, yet he could barely hold himself together in their presence.
Escape. Damon needed to escape, though he suspected it would not grant him the freedom he frantically sought.
But where could he flee to? His country seat at Falconcrest? He’d journeyed there only once since Sarah’s death, and he’d lasted a mere fortnight before the past drove him back to London. The house, the lands, the mere smells of the winter blossoms brought back that fateful day—and his failure.
Maybe Flora had been correct. Damon should send the children to boarding school. Allow them a normal upbringing far from their haunted father. They’d been so tiny when Sarah passed…why should they not have the chance to forget the pain and move on?
Because he was weak. He was broken.
And he greatly needed to keep his children close because they were all he had left of Sarah, even though the sight of them made the agony everlasting.
Damon stood before the hearth, begging its flames to leap from the logs and singe away his pain. Burn it from his very skin.
Closing his eyes, he allowed the heat to overwhelm him. To saturate his exposed flesh and heat the fabric of his trousers until the burn was nearly too much to bear.
This was what he craved, what he deserved.
His fingers tightened around the tumbler clenched in his hand, the throbbing in his head keeping rhythm with the ache in his knuckles.
The glass was empty, had remained as such since he’d fled the dining hall and closed himself back in his study.
At present, the sight of the bottle that had become his only companion over the years made his stomach turn.
He was so pitiful, he didn’t have the nerve to drown himself in scotch and bring about a few hours of blissful reprieve.
Instead, he’d chosen to wallow in the situation of his making.
His sister—and his friends, when they still came around—had told him it wasn’t his fault; yet Damon knew it was his impulsive nature that had taken him and Sarah away from Falconcrest in the Ashford carriage that night.
Off on one of Damon’s many larks—a late-night, winter sleigh ride through the snow to May’s Brewery for a New Year’s mead while Joy and Abram’s nurse looked after them.
The horse stepping off the hidden ledge under the snow drift and injuring his leg hadn’t been Damon’s fault.
The damaged, unmovable sleigh stranded in the increasing snowfall hadn’t been Damon’s fault.
Their inability to find shelter from the coming storm hadn’t been his fault.
Sarah and him, stranded during the frigid winter night out in the open hadn’t been his fault.
Her following sickness hadn’t been his fault.
But Damon knew it was all a lie. Everything had been his fault, especially every misfortune after Sarah’s death.
He’d retreated from life, his children, and society.
Damon had convinced himself that his children would heal faster if they did not fear losing him.
At some point, their hurt and anguish had festered into something far graver, and he’d failed to notice.
Instead, he’d paraded a never-ending line of governesses before them.
The women each left without fail, and every time, he’d blame his children or the inept servant…
when the fault lay squarely on his shoulders.
That wasn’t something he could change. It was too late.
Joy and Abram had been telling him—in the only way children knew how—that they were hurting, that they needed someone to step in and make everything right. He couldn’t even make it right with himself, so how was he to help them?
Where he’d failed, Miss Samuels had stepped in, caring for his wayward children in a way that Damon couldn’t.
Tomorrow…tomorrow he would be better. Try to be who his children needed him to be.
There had to be time to make things right for them.
Sarah was gone, but they were not. If he tried, genuinely tried, he could fix his family.
He loved his children—more than he could ever imagine.
They could not go on without knowing they were loved, without him showing them his affection—even if he could not bring himself to speak the words.
Miss Samuels had shown him actions were sometimes more powerful than words.
For now, he needed to find his bed and pray that a few hours’ sleep would diminish the ache in his head and relax the tension in his shoulders.
His back slumped as he set the empty glass on the table beside the lounge, careful to keep his eyes away from the familiar spot. He should have the piece of furniture removed, but even with it out of sight, the memories surrounding it would not disappear.
Ignoring them only made the images more painful when they broke through.
Damon left his study, exhaustion reaching every inch of his body as he made his way to the stairs.
“Good evening, miss,” Mr. Brown’s deep voice echoed from the foyer. “Going out?”
Damon was so close to making his escape up the stairs and the solitude of his private chambers. Instead, he halted, desperate to hear the woman’s response.
“Yes, I shan’t be overlong.” The sound of rustling drew him closer until only the shadows of the darkened hall hid him from view as he watched the governess slip into her cloak, and the butler hand her a muff.
She slipped her hands inside and waited for the servant to open the door.
“I will let myself back in. There is no need to wait for my return.”
He’d never before wondered how she spent her evenings or her days off. Before he’d caught her at his gaming tables, at least.
“I can summon the coach for you, or perhaps send a footman to hail a hackney?” Mr. Brown offered. His tone was untroubled without any hint of concern for the governess’s well-being, as if the woman often left with little explanation. “Or is your carriage coming for you?”
Her carriage? Miss Samuels was a governess without the means for her own conveyance. She’d lost a healthy amount to the duke and slipped away without making good on the debt. How could she have a carriage? And if she did, how was he unaware of it?
“No, it is only a short walk.” She smiled at the elderly servant, bringing a new light to the man’s eyes. He imagined it was how Mr. Brown looked upon his own daughter. “I donned my wool stockings and sturdy boots”—she patted her cloak—“and I’ve brought my key. Do not fret over me.”
“It is not my place to worry over you, Miss Samuels.” With a stiff bow, the butler opened the front door. “However, my missus claims I sleep more soundly when all the household is accounted for.”
The governess slid her hand from her muff and patted the aging butler’s cheek. “I will be gone two hours, at most. Please, do not cause my absence to keep you awake, Mr. Brown.”
She swept out the door with her chin held high, as regal as if she were the lady of the house.
The butler held the door open and watched her walk down the steps before closing the portal behind her.
“Mr. Brown.” Damon stepped from the shadows.
“My lord,” the butler sputtered, adjusting his coat. “Can I assist you with something? Perhaps I can collect you a pot of tea before you retire?”
Damon ignored the servant’s question. “Where is Miss Samuels going?”
“I do not presume to know, my lord.” When Damon frowned, Mr. Brown glanced toward the front door and then back to him. “I can catch her and ask, if that is your wish.”
Their agreement, as with every governess before her, left no questions about responsibilities.
She was allotted one day off per week, and evenings were to be spent however she saw fit as long as the children were asleep, and she returned before sunrise.
Neither Damon nor the butler had any right to question the governess’s private comings and goings.
There was a certain amount of freedom afforded to governesses that was not given to other servants.
“It appeared she was going for a walk,” Damon mused, keeping a close watch on his butler.
Did the man know more than he was sharing?
There was not much the old butler missed, and it was quite possible the servant was well aware of Miss Samuels’ penchant for gambling.
“Mayhap a turn about the square will do me well. A spot of crisp, fresh air.”
The butler shot Damon a narrowed glance as he collected Damon’s greatcoat. “I cannot attest to anything on the matter, my lord. My old bones freeze with the winter weather. But do enjoy your…walk.”
Damon pulled the limp cravat from his neck and handed it to the butler before fastening the buttons at this throat and donning his coat. It would have to do, or he’d risk losing Miss Samuels to the night if he dallied a moment longer.
“Very well, I will be off.” Damon stood awkwardly, expecting the servant to question him further; instead, he nodded and opened the door.
Part of him hoped Mr. Brown would attempt to convince him to remain at Ashford Hall, tell him the weather was too unpredictable for an outing at this ungodly hour, or at the very least give him a reproachful glare.
But his trusted family servant would never lower himself to such behavior.
For once, Damon longed for a butler who overstepped his position.